“I don't like it any more than you, Sir. But ask any felon. It’s all civil rights friendly now. but that's only once the suspect is logged in and formally under Station supervision. What happens before that is anybody's guess. With a case like this one, where a child's involved, emotions can run high. With all due respect, Sir, it happens.”
“If it does, David, it should be stopped. If it's true, we have a problem.”
“Sir?”
“If Bristow isn't Uncle Tom then who the hell is?”
“And are any of the other missing kids connected,” finished Pitman.
“I'll level with you, David. I'm on the horns of a dilemma. If I re-open the investigation now we're likely to have panic headlines in the tabloids tomorrow. And all possibly for nothing. I respect your experience, but the evidence against Bristow is compelling, you have to admit.”
“The alleged sighting of his vehicle by the Champlain, you mean? Someone like Bristow makes enemies easier than friends. There's a hundred people out there would think nothing of making a hoax call to drop him in it. If it were genuine, why didn't the caller come forward sooner?”
“But officially we have the man who killed the Meadows child, who's admitted to killing her, in custody. There is just no way I can authorize further investigation other than for confirmatory purposes.”
“If I may make a suggestion, Sir.”
“Please, speak freely.”
44
“At the moment the evidence is weak against Bristow,” Pitman said.
Weisman nodded. “Go on.”
“The DA will need much more, so we'll have to work on that anyway. Might I suggest we continue to put all our efforts into the inquiry, ostensibly to obtain the detailed evidence to secure the conviction against Bristow?”
“I’m listening.”
“In doing so we either conclude for certain it was Bristow, or alternatively we find enough evidence to show Bristow was not involved. In which case at least we can get the investigation back under full steam before another child is harmed.”
“I like it, David.”
“The way I read it, Sir, whoever killed Rebecca will have got a taste for it. Given the chance, he'll kill again. If he hasn't already.”
Weisman looked more relaxed. “Well let's not get too carried away with maybes, David. Just between ourselves, I don't believe he has yet.”
“Sir?”
“I spoke to Colin Dunst this morning. Professor Dunst? The FBI forensic psychologist? Just an informal call. He and I met on a course last year and exchanged numbers, as one does. Anyway, I asked him, off-the-record, supposing hypothetically that Bristow wasn't our man, if he thought the killer would strike again.”
“And?”
“Quietly reassuring, David. Dunst seemed confident that, from what he knew of the Meadows case, the murder fell into a recognized category. While he was certain the killer would strike again, given the chance, if he's still out there, he was also adamant he would strike in the same local area and stick to the same sex. Which one way or another rules out all four kids reported missing since Rebecca.”
“If his profile is right. With respect, Sir, I've very little time for that kind of mumbo-jumbo.”
“Mumbo-jumbo?”
“In my day it was psychics, Sir. Now it’s forensic psychologists. No difference to my mind.”
“But they’ve had proven successes, David.”
“Coincidences, Sir.”
“Be that as it may. We have to explore every avenue of investigation, David. That being the case, have you any thoughts on where you might wish to concentrate on next?”
“Well, Sir, Bristow is due to be transferred this way tomorrow.”
“You seem to know more than me, David.”
Pitman smiled. “The grapevine, Sir. Obviously he’ll need full security for his own protection. Then we need to interview him again. Whatever the truth behind who did what to him, we’ll need to play it softly-softly and keep ourselves whiter than white.”
Weisman walked across to the door, indicating the meeting was over.
“Thanks, David. I knew I could rely on you.”
45
Without his spectacles Bristow could see the screaming crowds only as a blur behind the Police barrier, but the atmosphere reeked of hatred, the shouts of abuse from people he had never seen and would never know leaving him bewildered and frightened.
Court Three looked on eagerly as the two uniformed officers guided him into the glass dock, his right hand cuffed to an officer, his left arm encased in a heavily bandaged plaster jacket.
The Judge made no allusion to his injuries. Isaac made no application for bail. Bristow was remanded in custody for a week.
“Chin up, Thomas,” Isaac said cheerfully. “At the end of all this you're going to make a fortune in compensation. Wrongful arrest. Unlawful imprisonment. Harassment. Police brutality. You'll be able to comfortably retire after this.” He put a friendly hand on Bristow's shoulder. “A few months and you'll be as good as new. In two years you'll be in Thailand living like a king.”
Bristow looked unconvinced.
“Thomas, Thomas, don't be so glum. The onus is on the prosecution to show it was you. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”
Bristow looked away. “Jeremy, my fish. They haven't been fed. Do you think you might...”
“Your fish? You've been through all this and all you can worry about is your fish?”
“The water may need changing as well. There's a –”
“I'll see to it.” Isaac hadn't the heart to explain about the house. He'd made arrangements for the windows to be boarded. He hadn't been beyond the front door, but guessed the fish were unlikely to have survived.
“So, I'll see you next Wednesday. Same time, same place?” He smiled at his little joke. Then, in serious tone. “You could be out sooner, Thomas, the way things are going. Three of the four kids missing since your arrest are still unaccounted for. They can't all be runaways. All it takes is one body...”
Bristow grabbed his attorney’s arm, looking him in the eye.
“Don't even think it, Jeremy. I'd happily make a false statement and spend the rest of my life inside if I thought it would bring those missing kids home safely.”
Isaac fell silent.
He knew Bristow meant every word.
46
At Matt’s insistence, Claire was at his home to watch the report on the early evening news.
She had wanted to be in Court to see Bristow in person, but he had persuaded her to stay away, not only from the Court but from her own home for the duration of the day.
It was a wise move. The house was besieged with reporters from first light.
He hit the remote as the bulletin confirmed the remand in custody, and for a long moment they sat in silence. He got up and wandered to the window. The sky was crystal.
Claire asked, “So what happens now?”
Matt considered the question carefully. “The wheels of justice start turning slowly. Very slowly. It could be six months before the trial, if they rush it. A year's more likely.”
“I want to be there.”
“You'll have priority in the gallery. You may even be called to give evidence on what Rebecca was doing that day. But you should stay away, Claire, if at all possible. It won't be pleasant.”
“I can handle it, Matt.”
“They'll be going into the sordid details, Claire. Everything. Over and over.”
“I want to know, Matt. I need to know.”
He took a seat beside her. “Believe me, Claire, you don't. Even if he pleads guilty they'll have to go through what happened. And if he contests it... Don't go, Claire. Please, just stay away.”
“And read about it second-hand in the newspapers the next day?”
“At least that will be the sanitized version. Court will be the real thing. Experts being cross-examined over the minute, obscene details of what he did to her. Forensics. Photographs of t
he body. A reconstruction scenario. It's the relatives that suffer at the trial, Claire, not the sick bastards they've come to watch go down.”
“But I want to see him. To hear him. To try and grasp why. How anyone can do such a thing to a child. Can you understand that?”
“He's just scum, Claire. A dirty short-eyed Cho-Mo. The lowest of the low. Not worth getting upset for.”
“I won't get upset, Matt.” She spoke to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. “Rebecca's gone. I've come to terms with that now. Nothing can bring her back. I accept that. But only when I see him in the flesh, when I can look into his eyes and tell myself he's either devoid of all feeling or he's suffering for what he did... Only then will it be truly over for me.”
He extended a hand of comfort and she took it gratefully. Her eyes were tearful but her voice controlled.
“It was the same with John. Once the tumor was diagnosed we all knew it was only a matter of time. But it was only after the inquest was over that I could begin my own life again. To start rebuilding. You remember how it was. I couldn't even look after Rebecca properly. You kept us going then, and you're doing the same now. It is appreciated, Matt. Really it is.”
He reached a hand around her shoulder but she pushed it away gently.
“When I know he's locked away for good, that he can't harm anyone else, then I'll be ready to move on.” She looked up at him for the first time. “I'll make some coffee. Are you hungry?”
He suggested a take-out and used the opportunity to get out of the house, to leave Claire alone a while.
She needed to cry in private.
So did he.
47
When he got back she was more cheerful, fresh make-up, more relaxed.
Over an indifferent meal of Chinese spare ribs and rice Claire broached the subject again.
“What do you suppose he's doing now?”
Matt suppressed a sigh. “Who?”
“Bristow.”
“Forget him, Claire.”
“What type of food will he be eating?”
“Bread and water.”
“I was being serious.”
“So why should I be the expert on prison food?”
“You're a crime reporter.”
“Will it honestly make you feel better to know?”
“Not if he's eating better than I am.”
“Judging from his face he'll be eating nothing but soup for a while.”
Claire smiled. “His attorney says he was assaulted by the police.”
“Of course he was. According to the grapevine there wasn't a hit and run accident at all. The cops did the whole thing. Even typed up the confession.”
She looked at him aghast. “You're joking.” She added, “Aren't you?”
He shrugged. “Bastards like that deserve all they get. Just forget it.”
“But the Police?”
“It happens all the time, Claire. Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for the sick bastard? For God's sake!”
“No, it's just that...” She wasn't sure what it was. Certainly not sympathy. “I can't believe the Police did that to him.”
“Oh come on, Claire, wake up. You read the papers. Happens every day.”
“That's different.”
“Course it's not. It's just the cops doing what they're paid for. To get results. Making sure the villains admit it.”
“But supposing they’re innocent?”
“Jesus, don't start going soft on this bastard.”
Claire paused to gather her thoughts. “A few weeks ago I would have been outside the Court, shouting and screaming with the rest of them. But I told you, I'm over that now. I'm in control. I'm looking to the future, not dwelling on the past.”
“So why all these questions about what the sick motherfucker's eating?”
She pushed her rice around the plate with a chop-stick, unable to muster an appetite. “I don't know. Just curiosity, I guess. The nearest I've ever been to a jail is when I had to collect you and John that time for being drunk and disorderly.”
Matt grinned sheepishly. “There's a subtle difference between a night in police cells and being on remand in a real jail.”
“So enlighten me. Tell me what he'll be doing. Wearing? Eating? Everything.”
Matt let out a long sigh. “He’ll be having a hard time, I promise you.”
“Hard?”
“As in seriously unpleasant. ChoMos are the dregs.”
“ChoMos?”
Matt smiled. This was hard work. “Prison slang for sex-offenders. Child-Molester: Cho Mo. Any Cho Mo has a hard time inside. It's a very macho set-up. The most anti-social elements of the male population stuck together in conditions you wouldn't keep an animal in. There's a certain hierarchy among the cons. At the top you have the big criminals: heavy-duty gangsters, drugs barons, armed robbers, that sort of thing. Common thieves like burglars and the like come somewhere in the middle. At the bottom come muggers, joy-riders and handbag snatchers. Then there's the lowest of the low. The ChoMos.”
“So Bristow is a ChoMo?”
“You got it. In his own cell, all alone, shitting himself. I guarantee you he'll be dreading every footstep he hears. Cowering in the corner every time he hears the keys in the lock.”
Claire shuddered. “It sounds obscene.”
“Claire, he's a ChoMo. That's obscene. The lousy, sick bastard deserves everything he gets.”
48
The offices of Witherton, Stanley & Jones, Legal Services, were hardly plush. A converted private dwelling above what had once been a hardware store formed the main offices of the firm, with the bay-windowed shop now the blue-carpeted reception area, waiting room and main entrance.
The direct line buzzed twice. Isaac picked it up expecting Conrad Buckmaster, the trial lawyer approached to defend Bristow, or maybe a family call. Only a select few had the direct line number. Lesser mortals had to go the hard way, through Karen.
“Yo! Isaac. Who've I got?” He'd answered the phone Yo! ever since he'd seen Rocky.
“Matt Burford. Lake Ontario Media.” A sarcastic drawl added, “So glad to find you in at last, Jeremy.”
Isaac glared at the phone, a mixture of anger and disbelief. He's been avoiding returning Matt's calls for days now. Karen had specific instructions to fob him off.
“How did you get this number, Mr Burford?”
“If you will insist on not returning calls...”
“I've been busy.”
“Haven't we all. Mr Isaac, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your client.”
“Which one?” He knew damn well, but stalled for time. This was a conversation he could do without just now.
“Our mutual friend, Mr Bristow.”
“You've surely heard of client confidentiality, Mr Burford?”
“I understand the legal position, Mr Isaac, but this is important.”
“Mr Burford, my client has been charged. Those details are public knowledge. I'm not at liberty to comment further. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to be in Court this afternoon.”
“Do you lie to everyone who calls, Mr Isaac, or just those you wish to avoid?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Your afternoon is pretty free so far. You intended to spend it tying up some loose ends from recent cases. Denton. Mills. But that was presuming you got back from the Court by eleven. You didn't. You've been back less than ten minutes. By the time you've had lunch it will be two o'clock. Your next booked appointment is at three-thirty.”
Isaac stared down the phone, gob-smacked. Burford had just read off his blackberry entries for the day, virtually word for word. He considered his response carefully, the mind ticking over at idle speed, warming to the challenge. “That's a number of lucky guesses, Mr Burford. Too many for coincidence, wouldn't you say?”
“I've done my homework.”
“Evidently. What exactly is it you want?”
“Answers to questions. Off the record.”
“Off the record?”
“You heard correctly.”
“You appreciate I could have an injunction out on you, your editor and your publisher in a matter of hours, if need be.”
On the other end of the phone Matt smiled to himself. The fish was hooked. “You must be aware I have a very personal interest in this case.”
“I am aware of that, yes. So this is a personal call?”
“You could say that.”
“Strictly off the record? Come what may?”
“I have my reputation too, Mr Isaac.”
A pause, then, “Where and when?”
“This afternoon?”
“Sooner rather than later. I've genuinely got a busy evening.”
“I know. You're having dinner with a client. Or rather, with his wealthy father. A Mr Kemsley, anxious to keep his errant son out of the papers.”
Isaac's annoyance briefly showed. “How the hell do you know all this?”
“Where shall we meet?”
“My office?”
“Somewhere neutral. Are you hungry?”
“Are you paying?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr Isaac.”
“Just trying to make ends meet, Mr Burford. Where are you now?”
“In my car, just below your window.”
Isaac kicked his feet and pushed his chair across to the window. The casters needed oiling. Down below Matt Burford raised his cell phone in acknowledgement.
Isaac chuckled to himself. Sneaky bastard!
“Drive round the corner. I'll be with you in five minutes.”
49
They collected burgers and fries from Five Guys. It was Isaac's choice, to Matt’s surprise. In his business you mixed with people of strange persuasions. But never before with a lawyer who preferred take-out burger and fries to a free meal at an expensive restaurant.
Still, Matt had no complaints. McIntyre was always giving him grief about his expenses account. Let the tight-fisted bastard complain about this one!
“You’re aware Rebecca was taken from this area.”
“Of course, and you and Claire have my deepest sympathies. But it wasn’t Thomas Bristow. Let me be very clear, Mr Burford, that my client will be fighting this all the way.”
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 9
